


Subject, Verb, Object

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Feminist smut, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8509144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: She looks hot, she thinks, hot and absurd, not really sure how that combination is possible, but certain its true.  Laurel laughs again, runs a hand through her hair and twists her hips, regards the new addition to her profile.
Or, Laurel pegs Frank





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because, really, why isn't there a flaurel pegging fic already? You know they're into it...

She tries not to laugh, she really does as she tightens the straps around her hips. She’s turned on, sure, can feel the slick, stickiness against her thighs, can feel the clench low in her gut at the friction when she shifts her weight. Yeah, she’s turned on, but can’t help the giggle, high and breathy, that slips from her lips as she stares down at her body.

She looks hot, she thinks, hot and absurd, not really sure how that combination is possible, but certain its true. Laurel laughs again, runs a hand through her hair and twists her hips, regards the new addition to her profile.

She pulls the strap on her left hip a little, straightens the toy against her center, laughs a third time, can’t help herself, still, never quite used to the sight of herself with a dick, especially not a bright blue silicone one, protruding, sharp and thick and jutting where she’s used to soft curves.

Laurel slips her hand over the toy, pumps herself one, twice, slowly, languidly, feels the answering clench, deep and sweet, feels herself grow wetter, slips her other hand against her breast, fingers running over her nipple, tight and stiff. She’s practically ready to come and she’s barely touched herself.

It always surprises her, every time, how turned on she gets when they do this, how she gets strung tight like a wire, humming with pent up tension, like electricity is running through her blood. It makes her feel so fucking powerful, in a way nothing else can, and at the same time, it reminds her how weak she is, reminds her of how Frank can reduce her to nothing but a creature ruled by need, by her own desires.

She lets her hand pass across the toy again, a second and then a third time, shoulders curving in, her breath coming quick and stuttering already. God, Laurel thinks, feeling like she should probably keep god out of this entirely, there’s something about their roles reversing, something about being the subject, the actor that gets her off, that unravels her, completely.

Yeah, she can top Frank, can straddle him and set the pace and force him to do her bidding, and that’s good, hell, that’s great, that’s fucking fantastic. 

But this, well, this is something else, something entirely different, fucking fantastic in an entirely different way, like new doors have been opened in her mind. With her bright blue dick she’s the giver, she’s the one who controls things, who gives pleasure, she’s in charge in a way she never could have imagined without it. She can bring Frank to his knees in whole new ways and well, Laurel’s always been one to get off on power, on control, on seeing just how undone she can make her partners.

She hears a soft sound from behind her, the sound of a throat clearing. “You gonna quit eyefucking yourself and start fucking me?”

She turns, laughs again as she finds Frank leaning against the doorjam, watching her with wide, dark eyes. She smiles, slanted, dangerous and watches Frank’s eyes widen further, watches the slow bob of his throat as his eyes drift across her body, to her breasts, to her cock. 

“I was thinking about it,” she drawls, hands drifting across her body, across her breasts, her stomach, her cock again, reveling in the way his eyes track her movements, burning and desperate, reveling in the way his breath quickens, the way she sees his own cock twitch and stiffen. “You want me to fuck you?”

She can see Frank try to speak, see him swallow thickly, winds up just nodding. Yes, she thinks, power and desire surging through her in equal measure, stealing her breath, this is why she loves this, this is why they do this, fucking Frank with her blue strap on. Because she reduces him to this, reduces Frank to this wordless creature, to putty in her hands, begging and desperate and falling at her feet.

She can get him to this point without the strap on, of course she can, because Frank wants her however he’ll have her, because he wants her always, but its different, somehow, because there’s always some element of power he retains over her, some element of dominance because he knows she wants something from him, his mouth or his fingers or his cock or all three, some dynamic that keeps him the subject and her the object, him the giver and her the receiver; Frank fucking Laurel.

But this well, this is Laurel fucking Frank, no other way to think about it, this is her in control, her as the subject and Frank, Frank is left at her mercy, the object of her wanting.

They’re equals, always, in all things, and yet, she always wonders if she’s just deluding herself, the inherent power dynamics setting her at a disadvantage from the start. She doesn’t know, her brain too overloaded with pleasure to really know for certain, but letting her fuck him reassures her somehow, that they really are equal, that Frank doesn’t think of himself as something he’s not, that he’s willing to give up every last measure of control to her, every last vestige, illusion of power.

Because this, this is different, different even from when she sucks his cock, because this is them chasing pleasure together, both trying to get off and she controls things, the situation, Frank, controls whether either of them get off, controls what pleasure Frank is allowed.

She smiles wickedly at his nod, teeth flashing. “I want you to suck my cock,” she orders, voice going cold and commanding. “Then maybe I’ll consider fucking you.”

Frank swallows again and stalks towards her, grasping her hips in his hands, large and rough, thumbs catching against the angles of her hipbones. She feels the press of her cock between them, pressing thick and heavy between them, and Frank’s cock too, bigger, thicker and still swelling as she brushes her hand over him. He kisses her, harsh and desperate, one hand tangling in her hair, tugging sharply at the long strands, teeth nipping at her lower lip.

“Frank,” she growls, hears her voice go desperate, pleading, can’t help herself, winces at the weakness in her voice. She can be weak with Frank, soft, but not tonight, not now.

He chuckles, tongue stroking against hers, and she feels his fingers wrap around the silicone toy, feels his wrist twist as he moves over her, against her, stroking her. “That really what you want?” he purrs, lips ghosting against her neck, the slide of his stubble pricking sharp against her skin.

“Yes,” she tells him, steadying her voice, her own teeth nipping at his Adam’s apple until he hisses, hips stuttering into hers. “Now suck my cock Frank.”

He tilts his head a little, grins crookedly at her, watches her with heavy lidded eyes as he kisses her a final time, sinks slowly to his knees, gaze fixed on hers.

Still holding her eyes, Frank lets his tongue dart out, glide over the underside of the silicone toy, swirl around the head before he takes her, the whole length of her into his mouth.

“You like that?” he asks around her cock, mouth bobbing over the toy, eyes locked with hers, black of his irises practically swallowing the blue.

“Shut up Frank,” she hisses, hips stuttering forward, a wanting, a desperate craving burning low in her stomach, forcing her to press her thighs together, teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep from crying out.

His lips spread into a wide, smirking smile around her cock as she fucks his mouth, triumphant. Yes, she thinks, she may be in control, the subject not the object, but that’s just an illusion. Because he can reduce her to this, to this desperate, grasping creature, able only to think of pleasure of need. She can undo him, completely, unravel every last shred of control, but Frank, well, Frank can do the same to her, always, with what she’s not even sure is the illusion of effort.

“Fuck,” she whispers, eyes slipping closed because there is something she cannot get enough of about watching Frank on his knees for her, his lips around her, there is something that sets her blood flaming in her veins when he eats her out, tongue stroking against her clit, or when he sucks her cock, wraps his lips around the blue silicone toy. She just loves him on his knees, loves to see Frank submit to her, come undone for her, reduced to nothing but his own wanting, his own desires and yet fully, totally fixed on her, on what she wants, the things that she needs like air, like water. “Fuck, Frank, more.”

He says nothing, but she can see the glint in his eye, teasing and cocky and her hand slips against the stiff peak of her nipple again, running over the sensitive nub, knows all the things he doesn’t say to her, all the things he thinks. 

He’s not going to get her off like this, they both know that, there’s just not enough friction against her center from the toy, but he’s damn sure got her close, got Laurel chasing a high that always remains just out of reach, climbing up and up and never letting her fall. He speeds up the pace of his mouth, bobbing over her cock, moans around the toy as she fucks his mouth.

She watches one hand slip down to wrap around his own cock, stiff now and straining, glide over his length in time with the thrusts of Laurel’s hips, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head.

“No,” she snaps, eyes flashing. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” Laurel would feel bad at the harshness in her voice except she can see the way his eyes grow wider, the blacks of his pupils threatening to devour the blue, and the pleased smirk curling his lips even as he takes her deeper in his mouth. 

And then he moans, sharply, around her cock and even through the silicone which is not a part of her, not at all, she can feel the vibrations in her bones, feel it surge through her, set her nerve endings on fire.

His own cock is stiff and straining between his thighs, curving up towards his stomach and for a long, desperate moment, Laurel wants to reverse their positions, sink to her knees and slip him inside mouth, run her tongue over the rigid shaft, taste the familiar tang of his come on her lips. But she doesn’t, because more than she wants to fuck him with her mouth, she wants to fuck him with her cock.

“What do you want Frank?” she asks him then, stepping back, cock slipping from his mouth. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

She can hear the shudder in his breath, sees the tremble in his limbs and she wants, with every last atom inside her, to hear him moan again, to have him crying out and desperate and begging for her.

“I want your cock,” he tells her, rising to his feet, crooked smirk twisting his lips. “That’s what I want.”

“How?” she asks him, stalking forward and sliding her hips against his, walking them backwards until Frank’s shoulder collides with the doorjam, her lips sucking hard at his collarbone until she’s sure it will bruise. “How do you want me?”

“I want you to fuck me with your cock.”

She smiles, wide, feral, teeth skidding against his throat, feeling the thrum of his pulse, hard and fast and unsteady. “Yeah?”

He nods, throat bobbing, eyes wide as Laurel tugs at his hair, lips colliding with his, hard and brutal and bruising. 

“Good,” she purrs against his lips, teeth tugging at the soft flesh until he hisses. “You want me to make you come?”

He nods again, tugs her closer, their hips colliding and his fingers slipping against the soft skin of her lower back.

“Good,” she repeats, voice going soft, tender before she can help herself. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t see straight.”

Frank chuckles, low and throaty, so deep she can barely hear it, just feels the rumblings of it across her skin, setting goosebumps bursting like morse code across her arms, her collarbone. “Gonna hold you to that, babe.”

She lets Frank flip their positions, lets him walk them backwards, back out of the bathroom, back towards the bed until her knees hit the mattress, hands burning brands across her hips.

She sits, heavy, legs spread, the toy bobbing heavy and curved between them, Frank’s eyes going impossibly wide as he goes to his knees once again, settles between her hips. And Laurel, Laurel reaches into the nightstand drawer, pulls out the tube of lube, coats her hand with it, coats her cock with it, dripping slick against her thighs, mixing with her own wetness, her own arousal.

Frank pitches forward, presses his lips against hers, flashing and desperate, his hand slipping between their bodies to glide against the toy, pumping her desperately in his fist.

“On your knees,” she pants, voice strung tight and ragged.

He smirks, eyes dancing and kisses her again, fiercely, before sliding past her onto the bed, Laurel’s hand trailing along the span of his back, across the smooth play of corded muscles as he clambers to his knees, braces his hands against their headboard.

There’s another press of desire low in her bones, sweet and clenching and Laurel shifts her weight onto the bed, slips her hand around the toy until her fingers brush her clit, working in slow, furious circles until her breath comes hard and fast, heart pounding in her chest. She tries to ignore it, tries to focus on Frank and not her own desire, but well, she’s selfish, a selfish, desperate creature and it takes the last shredded remnants of her willpower, and maybe a little more, for Laurel to still her fingers, move them forward to curl around her cock, to press her hips hard against Frank’s, press the head of the toy against the cleft of his ass, her hand sliding up his back to brace herself against his shoulder.

“You good?” she asks, voice tender, hearing the catch to his breath as her hips move against his, as she positions her cock to slip inside him, fingers still gliding over the shaft, slick with lube. “You ready? Need my fingers first?”

“Yeah,” he assures her, practically groans out the word, Laurel forced to swallow down her own moan, her own surge of desire at the desperation in his voice, at how needy, how fucking shameless he is about how much he wants her. “’M good. Fuckin’ perfect.”

She laughs, low and slow and thrusts forward, slowly, just an inch or two, not nearly as far as she wants to go, makes sure Frank can take her, makes sure he wants more, more of her, more from her. 

Its new and strange and she still sometimes has trouble getting used to it, to being conscious of Frank’s body, his desires, noticing the reactions of his flesh so she doesn’t hurt him, so she gives him only as much pleasure as he can take and no more. It makes her love him in wholly new and startling ways, having to worry about him and not having him worry about herself, whether she’s being too rough or giving him more than he can handle of the toy, having to focus so fully on someone else and not her own body, her own pleasure, focus on giving even as she takes and takes and takes. It makes her conscious too of how Frank loves her, of how careful he is with her when their positions are reversed, when he’s the one fucking her, makes her realize the thousands of ways he keeps her always first in his mind, keeps his focus, fully and totally, on her and not on himself, his own wanting.

Because when Laurel’s fucking him with the toy she can barely think of anything beyond her own body, her own desire and the toy isn’t even a part of her, isn’t even something that feels pleasure and yet it still takes everything within her to focus on Frank the way he needs, the way they both need for Frank to get off, for Laurel to get off.

It makes her love him, deeply and desperately because he always puts her first and she can recognize, now, with their positions reversed, just what kind of effort, dedication and devotion that takes.

And so she listens to his breathing, listens to the catch of his breath and the thrum of his heart and the little gasping moans that slip past his lips, focuses all her senses on Frank and only Frank, the ease of his hips and the muscles in his back, the tension in his blood that sends his hips surging back into hers, wanting more, wanting everything she can give him.

She thrusts forward again, hand still braced against his shoulder, nails digging in with a desperation she can’t quite hold back, thrusts another inch or two until she’s nearly buried inside him, her breath going tight and a high mewl slipping from her lips, mixing with Frank’s low moan as she pulls back, until she nearly slips out of him, hips pumping now, slow and languid but picking up speed.

“Touch yourself,” she tells him, tries to turn it into a command, but it sounds more like a plea, like begging or praying.

She watches as one of Frank’s hands leaves the headboard, trails down his chest, his stomach, and she can tell the exact moment when it wraps around his cock because he gasps again, hips jumping, thrusting back against her cock as Laurel’s own hips snap with want, the low surge of need building in her blood, in her center, behind her eyes.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the sound torn from his throat. “Laurel, please, babe, please.”

“Please what Frank?” she demands, voice sharp, as power, as wanting course through her blood. Fucking him like this, reducing Frank to this keening, desperate creature, god, it makes her feel powerful and beautiful and it turns her the fuck on, wetness that’s definitely nowhere near all lube drenching, dripping down her thighs, speeding up the snap of her hips even before he can tell her that’s what he wants. But she knows its what he wants, because she’s reading his body, the tension coiled tight in the muscles of his shoulders, his back, the desperate way he thrusts his hips back against hers, against the toy, trying to get more, take more, more friction, more fullness, more of her, always more of her.

“More,” he demands as she can see his wrist speed up the strokes against his own cock, pumping harsh and furious. “Harder. Please.”

She leans forward, presses a kiss against the sweat slick center of his back, loving the ripple of muscles under her touch, loving the wanting rasp of his breath. “I love you,” she whispers against his skin, breath harsh and rasping before she kisses him again, nipping at his spine. Her hand tightens against his hip, fingers curling tight and sharp until he hisses, nearly breaking the skin. “I love fucking you.”

“Love you too,” he whispers back as Laurel speeds the pace of her hips, feeling the sweet burn in her thighs, her abs as she thrusts into him again and again and again, feeling the building desire at her core. “But fuck me harder.”

She laughs, pace breaking, then picking up her speed until all she knows is the thrust of her hips and the harsh pant of Frank’s breath and the distant rush of own desire. The toy gives her pressure against her center, against her clit, but not enough, far off and distant and not enough, never enough, getting her close and thousands of miles away, building and building her need and never giving her an outlet for that wanting.

She shifts the angle of her hips, her thrusts into Frank and it only takes a moment before he’s moaning, crying out, wanton and desperate, his own pace quickening to match hers, his hand still stroking hard against his cock. Her pace goes furious, punishing and deep and she feels his body tense, strung tight like a wire before he breaks, stiffens and cries out and he’s coming, spilling himself over his hand, his chest and his hips still pushing back against Laurel’s as she guides him through it, slowing her thrusts as he comes down.

Her teeth nip against his shoulder blade, her own breath coming hard and fast as her hips still, slow and then stop, slipping the toy out of him as they both sigh at the loss of contact, of closeness.

Frank collapses, body loose and boneless, against the bed, rolls over to watch her with heavy lidded eyes, sleepy and sated.

She slips her hand against her cock, slow and idle, before unbuckling the toy from around her hips, tossing it idly to the floor.

“C’mere,” Frank says, his smile lazy and crooked, opening his arms to her.

She goes to him, slips next to his body, reaching out to take his hand, strokes her tongue against his palm tasting the come that still lies heavy and sticky and sharp against his fingers.

Laurel feels the little shudder of desire run through him as the slip of her tongue against his skin, drapes herself across his chest and kisses him, slow and languid, tongues tangling, thrills at the way his eyes go wide, watching her movements like he wants to memorize her, like he can’t get enough of the sight of her.

Frank slides his hand across the span of her back, slides down her spine until he cups her ass. 

“How close are you?” he murmurs against her neck, lips slipping down her collarbone, her chest until his beard whispers, rasping against the top of her breasts, the valley between them.

“Touch me and find out,” she orders as his mouth slips lower, lips sealing around her nipple, tongue flicking out agains the hard bud.

Frank hums around her nipple, the sound shooting straight to her clit, smirks languidly as the hand at the small of her back migrates to her center, slips through the wetness coating her thighs, her entrance.

“You’re close,” he whispers against the swell of her breast, his thumb circling her clit so achingly slowly she whines, high in her throat, craving more; more pressure, more speed, more of Frank, always more of Frank. “I can feel how close you are. Does it turn you on to fuck me?”

“Yes,” she gasps as he brushes against her clit again, so softly, so slowly, but she’s so close, so fucking close. She thinks once maybe, once, she’d’ve been coy, would have lied to him, tried to hold out on confessing how much she wants him, how much pleasure she gets from fucking him, from seeing him come, come undone. But she doesn’t, doesn’t bother, not anymore. She knows she doesn’t need to hoard her feelings, clutch them close against her chest, against her heart, try to keep what little advantages, what power she has by keeping him guessing, questioning. No, she has nothing but power, because he loves her, wants her, always, because she knows, now, that it isn’t weakness to love Frank. Loving him is power, pure and simple, strength and need, in whatever form it takes. “It does. You’re so goddamn hot when I fuck you. But now I want you to fuck me.”

He chuckles again, low and pleased, the pressure of his thumb against her clit increasing until she cries, sharply, cants her hips into the sweet press of his fingers. He slips two fingers inside her, then a third, pumps them quickly in time with the slip of his thumb.

Laurel thinks she’s been teetering on the edge for what feels like hours, strung tight and desperate and wanting and when she comes, she comes hard.

It only takes a few quick strokes against her swollen clit, embarrassingly few, before she’s coming, walls tightening, clenching around his fingers, crying out as her hands score lines against Frank’s shoulder blades, the corded muscles of his back.

“You really were close,” he purrs, moving back up her body to nip at her collarbone, tongue sliding against the sharp angle, pleased and more surprised than Laurel thinks he really ought to be. They both know how much fucking him gets her off, knows it gets her off almost as easily as it does Frank, shouldn't surprise him at this point, and yet, sometimes, she thinks, it does, how much she wants him, craves him, how much she likes giving him pleasure.

“I was,” she confirms, fingers carding through his beard and meeting his lips with her own, tucking her body tight against his side, hooking her ankle around his and throwing an arm across his chest. “Don’t look so smug.”

“Turns me on to fuck you too,” he says, turning towards her as his grin spreads wide even as he kisses her again, thumb catching against the angle of her hipbone. “To get fucked by you. You turn me on. You and your perfect cock.”

Laurel laughs, high, breathy, against his mouth, that same desperate, dizzying surge of power, of wanting, of love running high and heavy through her blood. Frank grins, nips at her lower lip, and the thrill of Laurel’s power over him builds, her power and her weakness and a hundred other emotions fitting together in an ever shifting kaleidoscope she can only describe as her love for him. “Are you objectifying me? Me and my perfect blue cock?”

The grin he flashes her is quick and crooked and smirking, the blue of his eyes going dark. “I am,” he tells her. “Why, was that not sufficiently feminist for a guy who just got pegged?”

She giggles, her breath suddenly hitching as Frank’s fingers begin a slow walk up her side, lingering at the full curve of her breast, losing all ability to respond beyond weakly shaking her head. 

“Cause I can objectify you more,” he offers, breath whispering against the sweet space behind her ear just before his lips find it. “Really ruin the moment by telling you how hot you are when I’m sucking your perfect blue cock, or when I’ve got three fingers knuckle deep inside you and your head thrown back and your eyes slipping closed and you’re dripping around my hand, coating my hand.”

“Frank,” she whines, voice broken and breathy as his thumb brushes across the hollow of her throat, followed closely after by the burning rasp of his beard. “Frank, please.”

His answering chuckle is positively feral, low and dark as it sets a burst of desire arcing desperately straight to her center. “You want me to stop objectifying you?” he smirks. “Or you want more?”

“Frank,” she pleads again, incapable of more. 

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, echoing her own earlier words.

Laurel knows he thinks it will turn her on, and it does, oh, how it does, but it reminds her too, that she has power, that she’s only at his mercy if she wants to be, that she can flip the tables just as quickly, take control, take charge. “I want,” she tells him lazily, one hand running through his beard, the other pushing hard against his shoulder blade till Frank’s forced to roll onto his back. “You really want to know what I want?”

He nods dumbly, eyes wide and mouth slack and Laurel thrills again at her own power, at the way she can reduce him to a creature fueled only by his wants, his desires. She throws a hip across his chest, straddles him, knees tight against his ribs. Frank’s hands come up automatically to glide against her thighs, higher and higher until they catch against her hipbones, slide down again, thumbs pressing sharply into her inner thighs.

She grins, wide and sharp and lifts her hips slightly, shifts forward so that she hovers over him, over his mouth. She watches him swallow thickly, throat bobbing, watching his breath hitch and his pupils blow wide, swallow the blue of them. 

“I want you to shut up,” she purrs, sinking down against his mouth, falling open now, tongue darting out to wet his lips, as though he’s already desperate to taste her. He is, she knows he is, she can feel it in the tremble in his limbs, in the first greedy strokes of his tongue against her, lapping at her slick, sopping cunt, worshipping her, her body and the things she makes him feel, the power she has over him. “I want you to shut up and put your mouth to better use.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a killer couple of lines from the show "the fall" ...  
> "Man fucks woman. Subject: man; verb: fucks; object: woman. That's OK. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject; man: object. That's not so comfortable for you, is it?" 
> 
> Because well, pegging is hot and uncomfortable and there should be more of it in the world. Basically.


End file.
